A French officer, hatless and bleeding from a scalp wound, leapt in front of Bolitho, his thin sword red to its hilt. Bolitho lifted his own sword, but felt it parried aside, and saw the French officer’s expression change from anxiety to sudden exultation. Bolitho tried to draw back, but the struggling press of figures prevented it. He could not lift his sword in time. He saw the man’s arm come round, heard the swish of steel, and waited for the shock of the thrust.

Instead the Frenchman’s face twisted with alarm as a battle-crazed marine burst through the throng, his fixed bayonet held in front of him like a spear. The sword swung round yet again, but it was too late. The momentum of the marine’s charge impaled the officer on the bayonet and threw them both against the poop ladder. The marine screamed with wild delight and stamped his boot on the Frenchman’s stomach, at the same moment wrenching out the dripping bayonet. The French officer sank slowly to his knees, his mouth opening and shutting like a dying fish. The marine stared at him as if for the first time and then thrust the bayonet home again.

Bolitho caught his arm. “That’s enough! For God’s sake, man!” The marine did not seem to hear him, but after a brief startled look at his captain’s face he charged off into the battle once more, his expression one of concentration and hatred.

The frigate’s captain lay on the poop, his shoulders supported by a young lieutenant. Someone was tying a crude tourniquet around the shattered stump of one leg, and the captain was only just hanging on to his senses as fighting, stabbing seamen reeled and staggered across his body.

Bolitho shouted, “Strike! Strike, Captain! While you still have some men left!” He did not recognise his own voice, and his hand around the hilt of his sword was wet with sweat. He thought of the crazed marine and knew that he too was in danger of giving way to the lust of battle.

The French captain gestured faintly, and the lieutenant gasped, “We strike! M’sieu, we strike!”

But even after the white flag had fluttered to the deck and men had been hauled bodily from the work of killing, it took time to make the Phalarope’s men realise they had won.

The first to congratulate Bolitho was Dancer of the Witch of Looe. Bleeding from several wounds, his arm tied across his chest with a piece of codline, he limped over the splintered, bloodstained deck and held out his good hand. “Thank you, sir! I was never more pleased to see any man!”

Bolitho sheathed his sword. “Your own ship is sinking, I fear.” He looked up at the frigate’s tattered sails. “But you sold her dearly.”

Dancer swayed and then gripped Bolitho’s arm. “I was trying to warn Sir Robert! The French are out, sir!” He squinted his eyes as if to restore his dazed thoughts. “Three days ago de Grasse met up with Rodney’s fleet, but after a quick clash at long range, broke off the battle.” He pointed vaguely through the smoke. “I have been trying to shadow the Frogs, and this morning I saw the whole fleet nor’-west of Dominica. He shook his head. “I think Sir George Rodney has managed to engage them again, but I cannot be sure. I was caught by this frigate before I could get back to the squadron.” He smiled ruefully. “Now I have no ship at all!”